


I did, I did, I do

by SmilinStar



Series: paint me a picture (of us) [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: “He deserved more,” he finally says, “better.”She looks up at him then, gaze colliding with his, and he sees through the red tears of anger and a bleeding heart, and he sees the weight of responsibility and blame, and he understands. He always has.“Yeah,” she swallows, “he did.”





	I did, I did, I do

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to Mina for reading this over and being my much needed cheerleader when I wanted to hit delete. <3
> 
> This is the third and final part of my ‘paint me a picture (of us)’ series, which follows on directly from part one. Title from Annelyse Gelman’s _The Pillowcase_.

 

 

*

 

For the most part, the Waverider is just how he remembers it.

Standing there in the middle of the bridge, his old coat still doing a terrible job of hiding the horrendous bright orange of his prison garb, he takes a look around and finds nothing much has changed.

_And yet._

And yet he can’t shake the feeling that everything has, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

The cold, distrustful gazes that bore into him, though. Those haven’t changed, although they seem to be extra sharp, icier than the last time he was here, easily cutting through his layers and slicing at his skin.

Sara strides past him, the heavy thud of her boots on the floor the only noise filling the room. She stops at the central console, eyes fixed on the screen in front of her as she slides her fingers across it. And though he knows she’s only focussing on the mission, the most important thing right now, he can’t help but think that _this is her,_ leaving him to the wolves, to fend for himself.

The message is clear.

_This is no longer your home._

_You’re on your own._

_And you’re only here because we need you._

It’s only what he deserves, he tells himself. He can’t let it hurt. He has no time to wallow – he’s spent enough time doing that.

(Five years and seven months, but who’s counting?)

“It’s good to see you all,” he says with a curt nod and a glance around the room.

The glares sent his way tell him the feeling is most certainly not mutual.

And it’s as he takes them in one by one, he realises something.

“Where’s Professor Stein?”

The effect is instant.

It’s then that he realises what’s different about the Waverider. Where once it was bright and warm, there’s nothing but grey seeping into every corner now, starving everything of colour like a soul-destroying wraith had been let loose. The grey is so dark that it’s black, and it fills the air around them so thickly and suddenly he can’t breathe because it feels too familiar. The tendrils of grief that wrap around him and dig into his skin with vicious claws are remnants of an old friend he’s well acquainted with.

No one will look at him.

The glares are gone, the anger all hollowed out and he feels the weight of the emotion in the room cave in on him.

He swallows, throat dry, heart a painful shuddering squeeze of a beat in his chest as his gaze lands on Jax.

He wants to ask _how?_ He wants to know _why?_

But he’s not a part of this team. This family. Not anymore.

He’s not deserving of any answers.

The silence makes that abundantly clear, as does Sara as she changes the subject and ignores his question altogether.

“Start at the beginning,” she says instead. “Everything we need to know about Mallus. The truth this time, Rip.”

He holds her gaze and wordlessly nods.

 

*

 

God, she wants to strangle him.

Wrap her hands around his scrawny neck and squeeze.

Because it’s always the same with him. All his lies have lies, and Sara thinks even if she were to wring the last oxygen atom from his lungs, there’d still be a lie on his tongue left unsaid.

She tells him as such.

“And you have every right not to believe me, I know,” he answers her, green eyes holding hers, before he looks away and at the rest of them. “You all do.”

And when his gaze finds hers again, the rest of his sentence doesn’t need to be said.

Whether they believe him or not is up to them, but he really hopes that they do.

And _she does_.

It’s hard not to. Not when she remembers that cold, endless void, Mallus’ voice everywhere around her, nothing but terror sparking down her spine keeping her frozen in place and the fear that she’d never escape burying deep inside her mind. And it’s a feeling that, even now – back home on solid, safe ground – she can’t shake.

The haunted look on Rip’s face as he’d told them of a future where they suffer the type of losses they’ve already endured cements it further – spurns the need to fight back with everything they have. Because this hole in their hearts is already too much, and they can’t let it gape any wider. This team is their lifeblood – for every last one of them.

It’s the same haunted look she’d seen on his face after endless nights of watching that video on loop, after hours and hours of staring at the photo of his son hidden away in his pocket-watch, and it must mean something she knows.

It must mean something that their deaths haunt him the same.

But she can’t dwell on that. Not yet.

She’s still angry, and she has every right to be – especially when he’s still not saying everything.

Because _why?_ Why couldn’t he have told them that in the first place?

As ever, there’s more he’s not saying and Sara’s too goddamn tired to deal with it right now. It’s been a long day, and it’s written all over her face. It must be, because the team don’t throw up any arguments when she dismisses them with some lame comment about ‘taking a break’ and ‘re-grouping in the morning.’

She needs to not think, and she needs a drink for that to happen.

It’s as she heads up the steps to the office that she notices Rip’s still standing where he is.

He looks lost.

He’s never looked lost, never on the Waverider, and she refuses to feel anything at the sight.

“You should probably go shower, get changed,” she tells him, not looking his way.

“Ah, yes. Right.” There’s a pause, and she can tell he’s hesitating on the spot.

She turns around and raises a brow.

He scratches at his chin. “It’s just that I, uh, don’t have anything else with me. I suppose I could use the fabricator, with your perm-”

“Come on, Rip,” she interrupts, “pretty sure you didn’t manage to pack all your belongings away in that duffel. Your clothes are where you left them.”

He looks confused, surprised, “I just thought you’d have -”

“Tossed them out of an airlock?”

“Well . . .” he says, and stops.

“We’ve been busy. Never got around to it.”

It’s a lie. But the truth isn’t something she can gift him.

Fortunately, he doesn’t push, just nods his thanks and leaves.

She watches him walk away, which is a sight she is more than familiar with, and one she is no less immune to.

She hates him for it.

She hates him.

 

*

 

He finds himself in the captain’s quarters – her quarters (or his, once, a long time ago).

There’s something that strikes too close at the sight of his things still in their places on his shelves. And yes, so they may be displaced a few inches here and there, or entirely hidden amongst Sara’s own things, but they’re still here.

The room is a mess.

And somehow that doesn’t surprise him. It’s Sara Lance after all.

But it’s the sight of what’s left of his clothes still hanging in his wardrobe, pushed to the one side but sharing space with hers that has him freezing still. A rush under his skin, his chest tight, and he can’t breathe in either because the room smells entirely of her.

He grabs a shirt and a pair of trousers and changes as quick as he can, before leaving the room and trying to wipe his mind clear of the image of her worn t-shirt lying crumpled on his old bed.

Aimless feet find him wandering back to her, even though he knows Sara Lance well enough to know she’s seeking solitude. It’s a risk he takes as he walks into the office and hovers at the doorway.

She’s sitting on the edge of the desk, scotch in hand and looks him over as if she’d been expecting him.

He folds his arms across his chest and keeps his distance. His voice is soft, yet deafening all the same in the silence. “Sara, what happened? Please?”

He pretends not to notice how she recoils with the ‘please’, and he waits.

It’s a long moment before she lets out a shuddering breath and places the glass in her hands back down on the desk with a gentleness that belies the tension holding her together. She clears her throat, fixes her eyes on a random artefact sitting on the far shelf and slowly starts to speak.

Rip can only listen as she tells the story of Martin Stein: beloved father, husband, friend and so many things, and Legend even in death. There are tears in her eyes as she speaks of what happened, the sacrifice, the toll it took on Jax, and how they nearly lost him too as he’d left the Waverider to try and cope in the aftermath. The tears slip in remembrance of a man who felt he’d lived a full life but deep down had known he had so much more to give, and the whole thing is just so _damn unfair_. She brushes those tears away furiously and the same anger burns in him. His own eyes prickle with heat as he rubs a hand across his face.

There’s silence once more as she finishes and grabs at her glass again, swallowing what’s left in one long gulp.

“He deserved more,” he finally says, “better.”

She looks up at him then, gaze colliding with his, and he sees through the red tears of anger and a bleeding heart, and he sees the weight of responsibility and blame, and he understands. He always has.

“Yeah,” she swallows, “he did.”

And because there’s nothing left to say, nothing more than what she stopped him from saying standing in the middle of a jail cell, he lets it slip from his lips now.

“I’m sorry.”

She flinches. He sees it. But Rip doesn’t know if she knows just what exactly he’s apologising for, because there are too many things to count.

He expects her eyes to turn to flint. He expects her to rebuff him just the same.

But she doesn’t.

“Me too,” she says softly.

He nods, doesn’t push for more because there’s a tightrope between them and he doesn’t trust himself to walk it. Not right now. And so he turns to leave.

“Tell me, Rip. Did you think of us?”

The question is unexpected, just like everything else that’s happened today. His rescue. Being here. The loss of Martin. This conversation. Sara Lance.

Surely, the answer is obvious given everything he’s told them about Mallus, and why he’s been so single-minded in his pursuit? But he thinks, maybe that’s not the question she’s asking.

“Did you think of me?” he counters, watching her from across the room.

With a slow inhale and exhale of breath she turns to pour herself another drink before turning back.

The glass is at her lips when she answers him.

“No.”

 

*

 

So, okay, part of her anger is at herself.

She’s not short-sighted enough to deny that.

But there’s no time to process this guilt - of not believing him the first time, of stooping to his level of betrayal, of landing him in prison. Of still not being able to get over the hurt. She holds onto the anger, tells herself it’s justified.

Because while she didn’t give herself the chance to deal with grief, it’s not like she’d entertain guilt either. They’re two dangerous and useless emotions when trying to come up with a battle plan against evil incarnate, so why would she waste her energy on those?

Still, it’s difficult not to be curt, to be dismissive of his plans, to ignore his input.

He puts up with it for weeks, and it’s probably why she doesn’t even pay attention to the fact she’s doing it. Because she doesn’t take long enough to look up and meet his gaze and see what’s swirling away in the ever-changing shades of green.

He reaches his breaking point three weeks later.

She dismisses the team, and she can feel Rip’s ire burning away from the opposite side of the room.

Sara doesn’t look up at him as she walks off.

His footsteps are loud on the metal floor as he follows her.

“Captain, a word please?”

She hates his tone, and irritation curls in her gut as she heads for her quarters.

“Captain Lance?” he calls again, “Sara!”

Her doors slide open and she steps into her room. Rip hovers there at the threshold, preventing her from shutting them back in his face.

His belongings are all gone now – moved into a previously empty and unused room – and having him standing there reminds her that _this_ used to be his. All of it. It’s a kick in the gut and enough to make her turn around.

“This,” he says, taking a step forwards, hands falling towards her in a familiar beseeching gesture, “is a terrible idea.”

She stands a little straighter, “I’ve already explained we have no choice.”

“It’s a trap and we’re not ready. I hate it, but it’s true. We’re not ready to take on Darhk and his daughter yet. You heard what Dr Palmer said about his prototype weapon - it’s still untested.”

“And I doubt the Darhks will give us the luxury of time to figure it all out! It’s just going to have to be enough!” She takes a breath in and out, and steadies her voice. “We’ll be fine. We always are.”

It’s a lie. They’re not. And the expression on Rip’s face tells her he’s thinking the same. Because this team is not invulnerable. They learnt that the hard way.

“Sara, I know of a few agents at the Bureau who would be willing to help in the meantime. I know they believed me about Mallus. If you perhaps just talk to Agent Sharpe, and ask her to -”

“No,” she says sharply. And the speed with which she rebukes his suggestion surprises both of them.

Various emotions flit across his face, too fast to register them all, before he settles on understanding. He straightens up, jaw tensing. “So, you and Agent Sharpe . . .”

She knows what he’s suggesting, the reason for her reticence to get her involved, and yet the words to refute it are lost on her.

He scratches at his jaw, leans back onto his heels as he looks away. “I suspected there was something -”

“There’s nothing,” she interrupts through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine. You’re right. We’ll be fine,” he concedes, looking back at her, and if she didn’t know any better, he looks sad, resigned. But it lasts only a fleeting few seconds, before his expression hardens and the words turn sharp. “No, you’re quite right. No need to put Agent Sharpe’s cover in jeopardy with the Bureau unnecessarily. After all, it’s only Mallus’ two most powerful henchmen we’re up against.”

And whatever she would have said is replaced by anger at his tone, but he doesn’t let her get the last word in as he turns on the spot and leaves.

She debates following after him, anger burning its way through her veins, until all that’s left is a trail of ash and the lingering sting. But in the end, she doesn’t get the chance to confront him about it as Gideon informs her, only moments later, of a Level 15 anachronism that’s set off Ray’s detection programme in 1492, Central America. The pattern of events has Darhk’s fingerprints all over it, and it looks like the trap’s been set just as they knew it would be.

“Level 15?” she asks incredulously, as she makes her way back to the bridge.

Gideon is quick to respond. “I believe any arbitrary number greater than eleven would have been sufficient to highlight the gravity of the situation.”

“Right,” Sara huffs, before asking her to gather everyone again.

She goes right back to ignoring Rip, pretending their conversation never even happened, because there’s no time for it and she, _they_ , need to focus.

They stick to their original plan, despite Rip’s misgivings grumbling away in the back of her mind. Everyone knows their part, and in any case, no one has come up with anything better. The residual anger takes a backseat, but it churns away inside her, colouring every decision she ends up making and every punch she throws in the fight.

It doesn’t help things when she eventually realises Rip had been right.

Because the plan works out fine. _Until it doesn’t_.

They manage to find a way to divide the Darhks, temporarily impede their magic with Ray’s weapon, but conquering turns out to be a whole lot harder. It all happens too fast to comprehend; one minute, Rip has Damien Darhk in his grasp, and the next the roles are reversed, and Rip’s heart is literally pulsating in the bastard’s hand.

And she can’t do a damn thing. Frozen in place by a fucking spell, and all Sara can do, with mounting horror, is hold his terrified gaze as the light in his eyes fades before her.

She won’t remember what happens next and neither will he.

A silent scream is torn from her throat, as she’s flung backwards a hundred metres, hitting her head hard on the ground. Worried, familiar eyes around a curtain of gold hover in front of her before darkness claims her with only his name on her lips.

 

*

 

Rip wakes with a groan to bright lights and an even brighter smile.

“You’re awake!” Ray exclaims, loud and joyous, and Rip feels anything but. “You’re okay!” he continues, and then says it once more, though this time there’s a noticeable tinge of relief. Even with the pounding in his head, the persistent ache in his chest as if someone had quite literally bruised his heart, Rip can tell there’s a fair bit of anxiety underlying the words too. Because this used to be Martin’s job – though whether the man had been any more qualified for such a role than Dr Palmer remains debateable. After all, what’s the difference between a PhD and an MD? Absolutely nothing according to this team. Still, he figures better Ray than Nate, and at least Gideon knows what she’s doing.

“Okay is perhaps an exaggeration,” he mutters with a grimace, as he shifts up on the bed so that he’s sitting a little more upright.

Thankfully Ray doesn’t hear him, focussed as he is on the monitor displaying his vital signs. Rip takes the moment to try and remember what led him here and finds it a struggle to recall. He vaguely remembers their plan to subdue the Darhks. How he’d railed against it, thinking it was a terrible idea, and how in his frustration he’d made a call Sara wouldn’t have been happy about behind her back. But something tells him now, it had been the right thing to do.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me exactly how I ended up here?” he asks.

Ray looks back at him, and the smile is gone now. There’s a flicker of anger tensing his expression and it’s enough to make him feel guilty. Because Ray very rarely does angry.

“You decided to play the hero and go after Darhk alone. Again.”

“Ah . . . right. So I did.” He vaguely remembers stepping into Darhk’s path. The rest is still a blur.

“It was reckless.”

“Better me than any of you,” he replies without thinking.

And now Ray looks unmistakeably hurt, and he can’t understand why.

He shakes his head, and surprises him with his next words. “We missed you, Rip. You know you’ll always be a part of this team, don’t you?”

“Do I?” he retorts, and he wants to kick himself for saying it.

Ray sighs. Disappointed. And though hope ignites, Rip is quick to extinguish it, because despite how much he wants it to be true, he can’t trust it.

Sara walks in before he can respond. She doesn’t meet his gaze, which gives him free reign to run his eyes over her. He catalogues the bruises, the slight limp in her gait. The skin of her left cheek is a mottled purple, the scrapes angry red, eyes sunken and tired. She looks exhausted, and equal parts terrible and beautiful.

“How’s our patient?” she asks Ray.

“He should make a full recovery.”

“Good. Thank you,” she says, squeezing his arm.

Ray nods, “I’ll, uh, leave you guys.”

Sara watches him go, before taking a breath in and out and he’s still not prepared for it when she finally turns around to face him.

The look on her face is blank, her words just as even as she asks, “I suppose I have you to thank for calling in Agent Sharpe in the end?”

“Look, Sara. I know what you said, but -”

“But you decided to ignore me anyway?”

“ _But,_ with all due respect, it was the right thing to do!” he finishes in a rush.

There’s a long pause before Sara nods and simply says, “I know. You were right. You were right to call them in.”

It’s hard to keep the surprise from his face.

She shakes her head, eyes narrowing at him. “Oh, don’t give me that smug look!”

His lips curl into an involuntary smile. “I’m not doing anything of the sort! I mean, I’m just - I wasn’t expecting you to -”

“I can admit when I’ve messed up, Rip.”

And it’s enough to sober him up because he hears the implicit question.

_Can you?_

He doesn’t know where to start. He’s not sure how many more times he can apologise. “Sara . . .”

“’I’m glad you’re okay.” She cuts him off before he can even get his thoughts together. There’s an obvious reluctance to this conversation and so he picks up the baton and runs in the opposite direction.

“We will get them.”

She nods. “I know.”

But then Sara isn’t finished with surprising him. Just as he thinks she’s turning to leave, she changes her mind and takes a step closer. Her hand hovers over him, before she drops it on his chest. Her fingers burn through the fabric of his shirt, eyes fixed on the rise and fall, and he suspects she can feel it speed up, along with the pounding in his chest.

“Is that how it felt?” she asks, voice low, face soft.

“How what felt?”

She swallows. “Watching us die.”

He doesn’t know what she’s asking.

He doesn’t know how to tell her it was nothing but fierce pain filling up his lungs, and drowning over and over. And he’s felt it before, and he didn’t know it could feel the same. For them. For _her._

How does he tell her that’s how it felt every single time? Even when standing in front of her grave, wild flowers in hand in 2014 and knowing the future?

But then he gets it, what she’s not saying.

She’d thought he was dying. _Dead_ by Darhk’s hand.

And so, he pulls himself to sit; the movement causing her hand to slip off his chest, but he doesn’t let it drop. Catches it instead in his and squeezes.

“I don’t know,” is the only answer he has, because he refuses to read into something that isn’t there and let hope fester. “You tell me.”

She takes a sharp breath and pulls away from his grasp. Her expression is hard and determined once more and he convinces himself that it’s not disappointment that cracks through his chest.

“We’re not going to let him win,” she tells him instead.

“I know.”

 

*

 

Their recovery is slow.

It’s not entirely unexpected. The emotional blows of recent events still weigh on them heavily. It’s a welcome respite, therefore, when Ava walks onto the Waverider, bearing good news for a change.

Director Bennett has finally seen the light and decided to prioritise Mallus, she tells them. This includes agreeing to work together with the Legends, sharing intel and resources. And as for Rip’s little jail break from their custody? He’s willing to turn a blind eye. For the greater good.

The whole team is there when Ava delivers the message. Their responses are muted, to say the least. Mick looks downright disinterested as he takes another swig of his beer. Amaya’s expression is carefully neutral, though the same can’t be said for Nate or Jax – the latter wearing a mask that’s unusually hard to read. The only one grinning is Ray as he high fives the closest person standing next to him – Zari – who reluctantly indulges him with a roll of her eyes.

It’s not their reactions she’s looking for, though.

It’s Rip’s.

Standing there on the periphery of the group, a spot he’s carved out for himself, his expression is difficult to decipher. It isn’t until she realises her hand is still holding Ava’s from where she’d reached across to shake it, or becomes aware of the other woman’s thumb running circles on the back of her hand, that she starts to make sense of it.

Sara steps away from her, tugging her hand away as she goes, ignoring the flicker of confusion on her face.

Ava clears her throat. “Well, I better head back. The Bureau will be in touch if we have any further news. And I trust you’ll do the same?” she asks, turning her head first to Sara, then Rip.

Rip says nothing, only nods his assent.

“Good.” Ava tries to catch her attention once more, but all Sara can manage is an “okay, sure,” as her eyes stay trained on Rip as he disappears off the bridge, the rest of the team oblivious to the undercurrents.

She barely waits for Ava to step back through her time portal before setting off after him. She finds him in the galley – his head-start long enough for him to have settled down into one of the chairs beside the table by the time she gets there.

If he notices her arrival, he makes no show of it.

“Well you certainly don’t look like a man who’s just been exonerated. Thought _that_ at least would be enough to get you to crack a smile.”

He huffs out a breath. “Except I’m still guilty. In their eyes.” And then: “ _In yours.”_

They’ve skirted around it. Apologised in vague tones only. But they’ve never _really_ talked about it. And well, now seems as good a time as any to hash it out.

She steps forward into the room, drags a chair around the table on its hind legs. The scrape of metal against metal enough to make Rip wince. She drops it down in front of him and sits herself down, back to front, legs astride, arms folded across the backrest.

“Guilty for lying to us? Yes. Guilty for going behind our backs? Yes. Guilty for keeping secrets? Yes. Guilty for being an absolute dick about it? Yes.”

He winces at that last one, and Sara imagines he’s remembering the last conversation they had before the Bureau came and dragged him off like a criminal. For which she truly is sorry. Because she gets it now. She does.

“But,” she continues, softening her voice, “guilty for doing what you thought was right? Or for trying to protect the people you care about?”

“Oh, I think I’m guilty of those too.”

“You are,” she nods, letting her chin drop on her hands silently urging him to look her in the eyes. “But then we’ve all been guilty of the same at one time or another. We should have all been in that jail cell with you. And I’m sorry I put you there.”

He swallows, and she watches the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he does, before he finally looks up and meets her gaze.

“So you understand why I did it?” he asks.

“I do.”

And all of a sudden, he feels far too close. Even with the back of the chair between them, she can feel the heat of him on her skin, his eyes piercing, searching for something as her heart hammers away in her chest.

He doesn’t find it.

She knows because the blazing green of his eyes dims, and he breathes out a slow sigh, with a sad twist to his lips.

“No you don’t,” he says softly.

He gets up then, pushes back from his chair and walks around her.

She turns her head to watch him go, and all she can think is: _she does. She does understand._

“Rip,” she calls out.

He stops but doesn’t turn back.

“There’s nothing going on between Ava and me . . .” she trails off, silently willing him to turn around.

He does.

“It really isn’t any of my business.”

“Maybe it is.”

Three words is all it takes.

His eyes search hers once more and she silently wills him to find it.

Because it’s there. It always has been.

Sara knows the moment he does.

A shake of the head and a disbelieving breath of laughter follows. The blush that creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks is something to behold.

And for once, they’re both on the same page.

And it’s about damn time.

He clears his throat. “Right. Well . . .” he starts, with a slight tremble to his voice. Sara feels it like a tremor under her skin, running deep to her bones, as she stands up and stalks closer. “I suppose I stand corrected.”

She stops in front of him, presses her hand to his chest and shakes away the memory of his heart in Damien Darhk’s hand.

Tilting her head back, she finds him staring down at her. Eyes wide and too close for her to focus on both but she can feel the stutter of the beat beneath her fingertips as she finally lets it all go, and falls.

“I suppose you do.”

 

*

 

It’s funny, Rip decides. Even though the Darhks remain a thorn in their side, and the threat of Mallus continues to loom over them for many more weeks, the Waverider doesn’t feel nearly so grey anymore. In fact, the corridors feel a little brighter, the smiles a little wider and more freely given away.

It feels like a white flag raised at half-mast.

It’s there in the teasing tones of his teammates.

In the muttered “English” and tilted head of an acknowledgement.

In the wrench Jax silently passes on as he settles down beside him to fix one of the broken Waverider generators.

In the spare games console Zari throws his way and her promises to show him no mercy.

In the cup of tea Amaya slides to him across the kitchen counter, and the place-mat set out next to Nate.

It’s in the toast they raise to Martin, and the promise they make to do him proud.

It’s in the smile Sara gives him from across the table that tells him he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“You know you’ll always be a part of this team, don’t you?” Ray asks him one last time.

Rip holds her gaze and smiles right back.

_I do._

 

 

 

**End.**

 


End file.
